I'd be Lost Without my Blogger
by Corinne Shaden
Summary: "There are several snipers with their guns pointed at your head this very moment. Now, if you look up you'll see John and myself on the rooftop of Bart's. Understand the game yet?" "Shoot me. Let him go and shoot me." "Noble now, are we? Unfortunately, you are not the one who will make that decision." (Reverse Reichenbach) Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Unfortunately. **

* * *

In the backseat of the cab, Sherlock pulls out his phone, re-reading the text.

_Come and play._

_Bart's Hospital._

_JM_

_PS. Got something of yours you might want back._

* * *

The cab stops, and as Sherlock's foot touches the pavement his phone rings.

"Stay right there," Moriarty murmurs.

"And if I don't?"

"Why can't you do as I say? You have to admit that's _sexier_. Anyway, stay where you are or your _pet_ will suffer."

Sherlock's stomach turned to ice. "Don't touch him."

"I made you a promise Sherlock, when we first met. But did you listen?"

The detective refuses to speak.

Moriarty sighs, and through the phone Sherlock can clearly hear him remove the safety from a gun.

"I'm waiting, honey. But Daddy only has so much patience," he drawls.

"Burn the heart out of me. You're going to kill him," Sherlock says softly.

"Oh don't be obvious darling. He's going to kill himself."

"No."

"_Yes_. Would you like me to explain the game to you?"

"Please," Sherlock managed to choke out. He struggled to keep his head clear as his mind races in a panicked frenzy.

"There are several snipers with their guns pointed at your head this very moment. And don't try to hide from them. Try anything and I will blow up the entire block. Now, if you look up you'll see John and me on the rooftop of Bart's. Understand the game yet?"

"Shoot me. Let him go and shoot me."

"Ah, noble now, are we? Unfortunately, you are not the one who will make the decision."

Sherlock's heart dropped. John, the doctor, the soldier. He would give his life for anyone's in an instant.

"I'll leave you two to discuss now. Have fun, my darlings." And then there is the sound of the phone being handed over, and a door slamming shut.

"...Sherlock?" His voice was soft, quiet. Apologetic.

No. _No_. "John, _please_."

"Sherlock, if you think you can convince me to let Moriarty shoot you..."

"John, if it weren't for me you wouldn't be a part of this. It's my fault."

"No, Sherlock, it isn't. Not at all."

"Shut up. Just shut up, John. For once in your life don't be the hero," he pleads tearfully.

John laughs humorlessly. "Thought heroes didn't exist?"

"I was wrong."

"God, never thought I'd hear you say that."

Sherlock's heart clenched. "John...please. I'm begging you. Please. Step down, let the snipers shoot me. Pl-"

"Sherlock. Let me speak. We're going to get this over with. Now. But will you just listen to me? Thank you, thank you so much. I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

"John-"

"Goodbye Sherlock."

And then several things occurred simultaneously. John dropped the phone, and Sherlock screamed his name as he had never screamed before, watching in horror as John stepped off the edge of the building, and fell.

Time slowed. His feet were frozen, unable to move.

And then they weren't.

He took off running, foolishly hoping that John had survived even as the involuntary calculations in his head told him how impossible that would be. As he rounded the small brick building, a man on a bike slammed into him, knocking him to the ground.

His head throbbed, his ears rang. But he slowly, clumsily made his way to his feet, staggering towards the body on the sidewalk that was already surrounded by hospital staff.

They reminded Sherlock of vultures.

When he reached John, he shoved his way in, nobody daring to argue. He looked so small. So broken. Sherlock reached for a wrist, remembering an eternity ago, how he had read the tan line on John's wrist to deduce his military history.

John had called him amazing.

There was no pulse.

He reached to cup the cheek of his brilliant, fantastic blogger, but then hands were gently tugging him away as others lifted John's limp body onto a stretcher, quickly wheeling him away.

Sherlock fought against the hands restraining him, sobbing and screaming.

And then he fell to his knees with a pathetic whimper.

For the first time in years, he was alone.

* * *

**BLOGGER COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER DETECTIVE REVEALED AS FRAUD**

* * *

John was loved. By army mates. By doctors. By patients. By the Yard. By readers of the bloody blog. By everyone he ever met. By Sherlock.

Sherlock was hated. Despised. Everyone was convinced that he was the reason the beloved doctor had jumped. And who was he to correct them? As far as he was concerned, he was to blame. John would have never been on that roof if not for him.

* * *

At the funeral, he could feel the glares upon him. He knew that they thought he had no right to be there.

He couldn't bring himself to care.

And then somebody he didn't recognize flew at him, fist slamming solidly into his face.

_Somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too._

He clutches his bloodied nose.

"You killed him! He would still be alive if it wasn't for you!"

He looks at his attacker, and is shocked to find himself staring into familiar dark blue eyes.

Ah. Of course. The infamous Harriet Watson.

She began to approach him again, but strong hands pulled him away.

"Not here. Not now." Lestrade murmured.

The entire time, silent tears ran down his face. People stared, some with pity. Most with disgust.

* * *

It was dark now. Everyone else had left the cemetery hours ago.

He stood before the simple, black gravestone. John Watson. If it had been up to him the stone would have been covered in writing.

Blogger. Brave. Crack shot. Kind. Loyal. Friend. He could have gone on and on.

He placed a hand upon the stone that was all that was left of John Watson. It was cold, hard. Nothing like the warm, kind, gentle hands that would patch him up after he had been exceptionally stupid during a case.

"John. I know you can't hear me. But I need..." He pressed a hand to his mouth and turned away, looking out at the empty graveyard until he could breathe through his tears again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry John. It should be me in the ground right now. You should be with one of those dull women you brought home, living a normal life. With a house. Kids. I don't know. Not here.

"You thanked me. You said you owed me so much. As usual, you were wrong. Idiot. You've shot cabbies for me and risked your life for me and put up with every body part in the fridge...you owe me nothing, John. I owe you everything.

"But if you really felt that you owed me, if you truly did, you would stop this. Just stop it. Don't be dead. Don't leave me."

Sherlock knelt in the cold, damp grass, thumbing the letters on the stone.

"I'll come by soon. Like I told you, I'm lost without my blogger. Need somebody to listen. And you're much better than the...skull."

His voice broke on the last word, as he realized the meaning behind what he had just said.

"What am I supposed to do, John?"

* * *

From a dark area between the trees surrounding the graveyard, John Watson looked on with watery eyes as his notoriously stoic best friend fell apart.

_Just hold on, Sherlock. I'll be back. I just have to take care of some things first._

* * *

**I may continue this, but I feel that it also stands alone as a oneshot quite nicely. Reviews make my day, so please tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**So apparently I should make this a multi-chapter fic. A fair warning - this was an unusually quick update for me, so I would definitely recommend following this fic if you are interested in being notified of future updates. I'll try my best to update weekly, but real life is extremely busy for me at the moment, so please don't hate me! :)**

**This chapter is more background info rather than actual plot development, but is still necessary. I promise that the next chapter will be more interesting. And with that, let's get back to torturing our characters!**

* * *

**Several Days Earlier**

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know."

Mycroft sighed as he watched John flip through the file.

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Two names: yours and mine, and Moriarty didn't get this stuff from me."

"John …"

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the doctor.

"Your own brother, and you blabbed about his entire life to this maniac."

"John, you don't understand-"

"What is there to not understand, Mycroft?"

"I am not the one being fooled. He is."

"I'm not playing games with you, Mycroft. Stop being cryptic and clever, and say what you mean."

"I have infiltrated his...organization. I have full knowledge of his plans, and by making some sacrifices so that Mr. Moriarty believes he is a step ahead, he is none the wiser. Speaking of which, it is rather convenient you came today, Dr. Watson. I was already planning on collecting you for a chat."

"Kidnapping me."

"If you wish to be so crude about it. Now, my associate in Moriarty's organization has just informed me of a...dramatic plot involving you and my brother that is to occur in the next couple of days. Rather than shut it down, we plan to take control of it without Moriarty's knowledge. It will not be pleasant, but I believe that is far better than the alternative."

"Which would be..."

"Being surprised by another plot."

"So what is this unpleasant plot of his?"

"My associate described it as Moriarty wanting to 'break' my brother?"

"Ah...burn his heart out..."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, nothing. So what do I have to do?"

"Fake your death."

"What?"

"With the help of my resources, you will appear to die. Only a select few will know that you survive."

"And who are those select few?"

"Myself, several of my associates, and a certain laboratory technician at St Bartholomew's Hospital who will help with the legal aspects named Molly Hooper. Everyone else, including Moriarty, will believe you are dead."

"Sherlock?"

"I'm afraid it is crucial that he thinks you are dead."

"Mycroft, Sherlock's an idiot. He'll go after Moriarty alone."

"I will ensure he does not."

"Nope. No matter how much power you think you have, you cannot make him do anything."

"Trust me, John. He is my brother. I will make sure he is safe."

John put his head in his hands as the weight of the situation began to sink in. "How long?"

"Hm?"

"How long will I be 'dead?'"

"Until we take down Moriarty's organization. However long that takes."

"And where will I be during that time?"

"In a safe house."

"No."

"John-"

"Absolutely not. I will help take down the organization."

"John, we just discussed how you will not allow Sherlock to help. What makes you think I will allow you to?"

"He'd be expecting Sherlock to come after him. He won't be expecting a dead man to."

"John-"

"I'm not debating this, Mycroft."

"Fine. But we will discuss it later. For now, we must go over the details of how you will survive."

Mycroft explained to John the scheme, which involved a well-positioned lorry, several as his men dressed as hospital staff, and quite a few packets of blood. It was an incredibly complicated plan, and Mycroft would not let John leave until he was convinced that John knew his role.

Finally, Mycroft allowed John to go.

"I will see you soon, Dr. Watson."

* * *

As John walked into 221B that night, Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa.

"You've been with my brother."

John froze. "Yes."

"What did he want?"

John frantically thought up an excuse. "The usual, he wanted to know what you were doing."

"And?"

"I informed him that your latest hobby has been insulting the papers."

Sherlock laughed, but said nothing more.

Not knowing what else to do, John began to make tea.

As the kettle was boiling, Sherlock spoke from his position on the sofa. "Are you alright, John? You're...fidgety."

"I'm fine."

"Well, stop. It's annoying."

John sighs, not knowing what he could possibly say. "I'm off to bed."

Sherlock grunted in response, and John smiled as he walked up the stairs.

* * *

The next morning John got up mechanically, knowing that today would be the last time he spoke to Sherlock for a very long time.

According to plan, he looked in the fridge, and sighed.

"Sherlock, we're out of milk."

"Hm."

"I'll just go get some then"

"Hm."

Grabbing his coat, he drank in the sight of Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, plucking at the violin.

"I'll be back soon."

* * *

Everything went according to plan, the abduction on his way to the store, the rooftop location, the well-positioned lorry. But he had never anticipated how painful the phonecall to his best friend would be. Hearing the raw, painful pleading of his best friend to allow Moriarty to shoot him was nearly unbearable.

Once he was on the ground, he supposed he could hear the agents posing as hospital staff, but all he could remember were the choked sobs that he wasn't sure Sherlock knew he was making as he felt his wrist for a pulse. And then, as he was wheeled away, the heartbreaking scream.

_This had better be bloody worth it._

* * *

Once again, he sat in Mycroft's office, ignoring the ice that had been brought to him for the bruises he had obtained.

"In case you were curious, your funeral will be on Friday. "

"My what?"

"You _are_ legally dead, Dr. Watson."

"Right, of course."

"Now, are you still refusing to stay in a safe house?"

"Yes. My answer has not and will not change."

"Very well. On Saturday night I will have you transported to a confidential location where you will be given all the information we have on Moriarty's organization."

John took a deep breath. "Right then."

As he turned towards the door to leave, Mycroft spoke again.

"One last thing John?"

He turned back to face Mycroft.

"Do try not to get yourself killed."

"I'll try my best," he signed.

* * *

He doesn't know what compelled him to do it. There is really no reason for him to be here.

He tells himself that visiting one's own grave is a once in a lifetime experience.

If he's being honest with himself, it's because he knows that Sherlock will be there, and he needs to see that face one last time before he leaves for god knows how long.

He felt unbelievably guilty as he watched Sherlock weep at his grave. Sherlock should never be like this. He was cold, sharp, stoic. John had never seen Sherlock like this before. It was worse than his reaction to Irene's "death," worse than the drug-induced fear at Baskerville.

And it was John who had done this to him.

Sherlock began to shiver as he knelt in the cold grass, but showed no signs of moving. More than anything, John wanted to run out, drag him back to Baker Street, wrap him in layers of warm blankets, and give him a cup of hot tea.

But of course he couldn't. So he did the only thing he could do.

_Come collect your brother before he gets himself sick._

_JW_

Then he waited, watching over Sherlock until Mycroft strolled up behind his brother, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder that nonetheless made him flinch violently.

He watched Mycroft ease his unresisting brother to his feet and get into the black car that Mycroft must have arrived in. John watched the car until it turned a corner and was out of his sight.

* * *

As he sat in Mycroft's helicopter (of course he would have a bloody helicopter) traveling to the "confidential location," John could think of nothing but the look on Sherlock's face as he had wept at John's grave.

And that was what convinced John that he would do whatever it took to get home as soon as he possibly could.

* * *

**Alright, another one down! Thank you so very much for your kind reviews on the last chapter, and I would love to hear what you think of this one as well! After all, reviews make me write faster. ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Whaaaatttt? Three chapters in a week?**

**This chapter is a bit on the short side, and I'm not entirely pleased with it, but here it is. It's pretty angsty, but I promise that we're getting closer to happiness and fluff. Soon! I promise! I'll only torture the characters a little bit more!**

**Also, I've created a tumblr. More info and the link at the end of the chapter. :)**

* * *

Somehow, Sherlock had gotten from the cemetery to his flat. He wasn't quite sure how, though he supposed it must have been Mycroft's doing. Yes, now that he thought of it, he did vaguely recall a hand on his shoulder, leading him away from the grave. John's grave. John._ John._

Sherlock felt tears well up in his eyes again, letting them overflow without even attempting to wipe them away. He had passed the point of being embarrassed by them.

He wondered if they would ever stop.

"Oh, Sherlock," a voice said from the doorway.

Ah. Mrs. Hudson. She had been at the funeral. John's funeral. She had brought a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers.

Did John even like flowers?

It didn't matter. It's not like John could appreciate them now.

She walked up behind him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I've brought you a cuppa and some biscuits, dear. You really must eat something," she advised, setting the tray down on table.

Come to think of it, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything. It must have been days. John had always taken care of him, always made sure he was alright, that he ate and slept.

Sherlock knew that he hadn't slept, but not for lack of trying. He knew he should, John had certainly reminded him of the consequences often enough. But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was a falling body, a small broken figure, light hair stained dark with blood.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson returned several hours later to find the tray with untouched biscuits and a full mug of tea that had gone cold. She quickly made Sherlock another cup with far too much sugar, ordering him to drink it. To please her he took a sip. It was far too hot, burning his tongue.

So he drank it as fast as he could, scalding his mouth.

Mrs. Hudson looked on, concerned and confused, but did not say a word. She gently pushed plate of biscuits in front of him. He tentatively began to nibble at one, choking it down.

She smiled, patted his shoulder, and left. As soon as she was out of sight, he set the biscuit down and curled up on the sofa, careful not to doze off lest he be tortured by images of John.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

God, was it so hard to be left alone? Sherlock looked up to see Lestrade standing in the doorway.

"Come to arrest me for murder?"

A look that looked horribly like pity crossed Lestrade's face, but quickly disappeared.

"I'm here as a friend," he said as he sat down beside Sherlock on the sofa.

"I don't believe you're a fake. I've known you for years. I know you're not a fraud. And I know John did too." Sherlock flinched but Lestrade chose to ignore it. "So what the hell happened?"

Sherlock didn't respond, simply buried his face in his hands.

"Sherlock."

"..."

_"Sherlock."_

"..."

"Sherlock, I'm not leaving until you tell me the truth."

"Moriarty." Sherlock whispered it so quietly Lestrade had to strain to hear.

Damn. Of course it had been him. "What happened?"

Once again, Sherlock refused to speak.

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, If we ever want to get the man who killed John, we need to know what happened."

"He took John, texted me telling me to come to Bart's. Then he phoned me, told me we were playing a game. Informed me that there were snipers with their rifles aimed at me, and that he was with John at the rooftop. Naturally I told him to let John go and shoot me, but he told me that John would be the one to choose. He gave the phone to John and left. I begged John not to, but he jumped." Sherlock spoke so quickly it was difficult to understand him, wanting to get it over with as fast as he possibly could. At some point he had started crying, as tears were streaming down his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. It wasn't your fault. Not at all."

"If it wasn't for me he would never have been in the situation to begin with."

"Sherlock, you are not the murderer. Moriarty is. You have to understand that..."

Up until this point, Sherlock had felt nothing but despair. But now, he was angry. Furious. Because although he had been the one that put John's life in danger in the first place, it was Moriarty who had killed him.

And that meant that Moriarty would die.

* * *

Sherlock posted the address to his blog of the school where the cabby had taken him on his very first case with John - where he had first heard the name Moriarty. And this was where he would end it. If all went according to plan, one of them would die.

It didn't really matter which one of them.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the classroom he'd been in with the cabby, John's gun in his coat pocket. He stared across to the window John had been standing at when he had saved his life for the first time. The glass had been repaired. It was as if it had never even happened.

He stilled at the sound of expensive shoes clicking down hallway, looking up as a man appeared in the doorway.

"Mycroft."

"Surely you didn't actually expect Moriarty to show up?"

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft sighed, taking the seat across from his brother. "Sherlock, do you really think Moriarty fears death?"

When Sherlock gave no response, he continued. "Moriarty killed John knowing you would go after him. That you would keep playing this 'game' of yours. He wouldn't have shown up tonight, he would have given you some hint that would lead you on a chase. You are doing exactly what he wants."

_Stupid. Stupid. I've been so bloody stupid._ "So what do I do?"

"What he doesn't want you to."

"Which would be?"

"Ignore him."

* * *

**So like I said, I created a tumblr so I could give updates on fics even when I'm not posting. :) This will be necessary, as I'll be in school starting Monday, and won't have as much time for writing. So keep an eye on my tumblr to know that I haven't abandoned the fics! I'll keep you all updated. **

**The link is corrineshaden .tumblr .com (no spaces)**

**Also, thanks again for all the lovely reviews! They really do make my day, and they really do make me write faster. ;) **

**Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**First of all, I realize this chapter is much shorter than the others. Sorry! But I am back in school now, so I have less time for writing. That's not to say that I will be abandoning this fic! Be sure to follow my tumblr (the link is on my profile page) to get updates on my progress.**

**...I think that's everything. Here's Chapter 4!**

* * *

Sherlock had decided to do nothing about Moriarty.

Which meant that he had done almost nothing at all.

Lestrade had tried to bring him out to a case, but he refused. Everyone believed he was a fraud - his word was worth nothing.

So he stayed in the flat, sometimes experimenting, occasionally eating.

Rarely sleeping. He would manage to wait until he was so exhausted he was about to collapse, and would then fall into the arms of sleep, inevitably waking up sweating, screaming, or sobbing.

Often all three.

He could tell they were all careful not to leave him alone for too long. Lestrade brought by cold case files, Mrs. Hudson would come up "just to chat." Even Mycroft would sometimes stop by, looking exhausted. When Sherlock had questioned him, he had said nothing, just shook his head.

Before he had met John, Sherlock had lived alone, and that was fine.

But now that John was gone, being alone wasn't fine.

Not at all.

* * *

John sat in a dingy coffee shop in Sicily, sipping a mug of black coffee, when a man in a long coat sat down next to him. He looked up, foolishly hopeful, only to sigh in disappointment.

It was Holmes, but not _his_ Holmes.

Along with Mycroft's operatives, John had taken out a great deal of Moriarty's vast network over the past year. He was exhausted, and had no energy for pleasantries.

"Alright Mycroft, what do you have?"

"Nothing."

John laughed humorlessly, shaking his head. "Then why are you here?"

"Because that is exactly what I needed to discuss with you. Moriarty is one of the few remaining members of his organization. And he has been all but invisible."

"But that's not his style at all. He lives to be noticed. He wants you to notice him, and then he outsmarts you. That's what he does."

"I know. Which is why this is so peculiar."

"What about your operatives within his organization?"

"I regret to say that some months ago they were...discovered."

"Jesus...I don't want to know," John said as he put his head in his hands. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait."

"Brilliant plan, Mycroft. Absolutely brilliant."

"I have no choice."

"When can I come home?"

"When it is safe. For now, you will stay with me. I can offer you the best protection."

For a long moment, not a word was said. Finally, John asked the question that had been on his mind since he had left London.

"How is Sherlock?"

"..."

"Mycroft?"

"Not well. He misses you terribly."

He didn't think it was possible, but John felt even worse as the familiar guilt washed over him.

"I miss him too."

* * *

Sherlock had gotten into the habit of fixing himself tea as often as possible. He knows it's ridiculous, but the simple action reminds him of John.

It's been over a year. He knows he should be moving on.

But he can't.

Today, as he takes a sip of the tea, he immediately realizes something is wrong. The taste is off, slightly too bitter. But it's too late. His knees give out, and he attempts to catch himself on the table as he crashes to the floor.

* * *

Some time later, as Sherlock blinks his way to awareness, several things register even in his drug-addled mind.

He's incredibly cold.

He's tied to a chair.

And a man sits in a chair across from him.

"Darling, you know I _despise_ being ignored..."

* * *

**Sorry for the cliffhanger. It's evil, but not Moffat-evil, so I hope you can forgive me. **

**Once again, follow my tumblr if you'd like updates on this fic!**

**Thank you again for all your kind reviews, follows, and favorites on the story so far. :) Please let me know what you think of this chapter!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Alright, alright. So apparently I was Moffat-evil. Apologies.**

**But here's the next chapter! I made you wait a week...not two years. Does that count for something?**

**A few things to note about this chapter…**

**Sherlock may seem rather OOC, but my reasoning is that he's been absolutely traumatized, and therefore wouldn't act anything like his normal self. He's broken, lost. I hope you see it the same way!**

**Also, you can see the relationship between Sherlock and John as either strong friendship or pre-slash. So basically like the show. Just kidding...a little… ;)**

**And here's the chapter! Be warned...it's quite long...**

* * *

"Darling, you know I despise being ignored..."

Even with his head spinning, Sherlock manages to glare weakly at Moriarty.

"I've been so _terribly_ bored. And you've been boring ever since your little pet died."

Sherlock's spine stiffens, but he remains silent.

"I know you have been bored as well."

Sherlock just blinks at him.

"You must be _desperate_ for something to occupy that brilliant brain of yours. And I have just the thing. Join me, Sherlock Holmes. We could be fantastic, the two of us. You'd never be bored again."

Sherlock laughs once, humorlessly.

"Pity. I would be so much better for you than that horrid pet of yours."

This time, Sherlock winces at the mention of John, making Moriarty's eyes light up in delight.

"You know that it's your fault he's dead."

"...I know," Sherlock responded quietly.

Moriarty's grin grew larger. "You all but murdered him. He would be alive and happy if not for you."

"Stop. Please, stop."

"No. You need to hear this. You need to be reminded of how you _failed_ him."

Sherlock had begun to shiver, and didn't seem to notice as Moriarty began to cut away the ropes that bound him to the chair.

"I should have seen it earlier - you're _nothing_ without that stupid little pet. Look at you, you're pathetic. You're no longer any fun as an opponent. Pity."

Moriarty struck Sherlock across the cheek so hard that the man fell of his chair, landing hard on the frigid concrete floor.

"But that's quite alright. I'll find other ways to entertain myself. That lovely light skin of yours bruises quite prettily…"

* * *

"What the _hell_ do you mean, he's _disappeared_?"

"John-"

"No. Shut up, Mycroft. Just shut up. What is the use of all your _bloody_ agents if you cannot protect your own _brother_?"

"We'll find out what happened John, I assure you."

"Oh, I can tell you _exactly_ what happened. Our favorite psychopath, who just so happens to be flying under the radar at the moment, got bored and took the only opponent he considered his equal. And God knows what he has planned."

"Yes, John, I am also assuming that is the case. My 'bloody agents' are currently analyzing the CCTV files - those that haven't been wiped blank by our kidnapper - and are doing all they can to determine Sherlock's location."

"You better hope they are quick enough."

* * *

It had been hours since Sherlock had disappeared.

Hours that he had been in the hands of an angry psychopath.

And all John could do was sit in Mycroft's office, waiting for any news at all.

He had never felt so useless.

The frustration that had been building since he had become aware of Sherlock's situation had become overwhelming, and he fisted his hands in his hair in an attempt to release it.

Just when John thought he would collapse with worry, Mycroft's phone buzzed.

"They've found him."

* * *

As the two men piled into the sleek black car with the rest of Mycroft's operatives, Mycroft spoke to the group.

"Now remember, there are two things that absolutely must be done. My brother must be rescued. And Mr. Moriarty must be killed."

* * *

Sherlock curled in on himself on the cement floor in a pathetic attempt to make himself appear smaller, foolishly just hoping that the pain would stop, just stop, please. Every inch of his body hurt.

He didn't know how long he had been here, in this cold room with Moriarty. He couldn't even bring himself to care.

Sherlock wished Moriarty would just kill him.

The criminal kicked him soundly in the ribs yet again, laughing gleefully at the pitiful whimper he produced.

Suddenly, the door was loudly kicked open. Moriarty turned to see what had happened.

And was promptly shot.

Immediately, paramedics Sherlock recognized as Mycroft's crowded the room. As they loomed over him, Sherlock began to shake violently, curling further in on himself.

But a man pushed through the swarm of paramedics, cautiously kneeling down beside Sherlock.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock's mind simply stopped. There was nothing, no sound, no thoughts.

Nothing but John Watson.

Still trembling, Sherlock flinched as the paramedics reached out to tend to his wounds.

"Stop," John snapped at them. "You're scaring him. I'm a doctor, I'll tend to him."

"But sir-"

"Leave me your equipment, and give him some space. Do something useful, deal with that," he nodded towards Moriarty's body.

As they began to disperse, John gently cupped Sherlock's chin, shining one of the paramedic's flashlights into the taller man's eyes.

"Alright, you don't seem to have a concussion-"

"You're dead," Sherlock whispered.

"No, I'm not, and I'll explain everything as soon as we get you to a hospital," John assured as he carefully felt the bruised and bloodied man for any serious injuries.

Sherlock weakly shook his head. "I_ watched you die_."

"It was a trick, nothing but a bloody trick. I promise, once we get you to-"

"Don't need a hospital."

"Sherlock-"

"Dr. Watson?" Mycroft approached the two men. "How serious are his injuries?"

"No breaks, just bruised bones. And extensive abrasions and bruising-"

"Are you able to handle that at the flat?"

"Well I suppose I could, but it would really be better to have him checked-"

"Then take him back to the flat. He needs you more than he needs the hospital right now."

* * *

"Alright, Sherlock. No hospitals. But we do need to get you to one of Mycroft's cars. Can you walk?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock tried to make his way to his feet, but his legs gave out almost immediately. A pair of strong, warm hands arrested his fall.

Without hesitation, John lifted the alarmingly light, frail man and began to carry him to the car, holding him as tight as he possibly could without hurting him.

Sherlock's head was spinning, screaming. He didn't know what was going on, how this could be real, how John - _his John_ - could possibly be here, alive. He wrapped his arms around his blogger, pressed his face into John's solid chest.

* * *

When they reached the vehicle, John attempted to lay Sherlock on the back seat, but the man refused to unwrap himself from John.

So John sat in the backseat with Sherlock still folded around him, holding him close.

As London passed by through the window as a blur of dark buildings, John felt Sherlock begin to weep against his chest. His heart clenched painfully, and he began to stroke Sherlock's curls soothingly. They were alone except for the driver, but he found that he couldn't be bothered to give a damn if "people might talk."

* * *

When they finally approached Baker Street, John quietly carried Sherlock up the stairs, taking care not to wake Mrs. Hudson.

He carefully sat down on the sofa with Sherlock still in his arms, drinking in the sight of the flat he had so desperately missed. For several long minutes, the flat was silent except for the sound of Sherlock's tears.

"I missed you, John. So much," Sherlock choked through his sobs.

"I missed you too, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

"Why did you leave?"

And John told him everything. Mycroft's operatives within Moriarty's network, the faked suicide, how he had helped destroy Moriarty's organization - everything.

When he had finished, Sherlock raised his head, looking straight into John's eyes.

"John?"

John tensed. He knew this was coming. Sherlock would yell, hate him, ask him to leave. And to be honest, John wouldn't blame him. Sherlock had been hurt, lied to, abandoned.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John asked as his heart sunk.

"Thank you for coming back."

John threw his arms around the other man, holding on for dear life. Silent tears ran down his face. And as he held onto Sherlock, John knew that he could never, ever leave this brilliant man ever again.

* * *

**So I'm planning on writing one final chapter/epilogue for this fic, and then it will be done!**

**As always, thank you for the wonderfully sweet reviews, and please let me know what you think of this chapter as well!**

**Also, be sure to follow my tumblr for progress updates and other nonsense. The link is on my profile, but if that doesn't work, my username is simply corinneshaden.**

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

**And here we are, at the final chapter/epilogue. Not much to say, more notes are at the end, so let's just get right into it!**

* * *

Mrs. Hudson made her way up the stairs to Sherlock's flat with a cup of tea in her hands, wary due to the fact that she hadn't heard a peep out of him yet, and it was already mid-morning. Usually those dreadful nightmares meant the boy did not get nearly as much sleep as he should, and she would almost always hear him roaming about by this hour. She had been at her sister's the day before, and hoped nothing had happened to the poor boy.

As Mrs. Hudson gently nudged the door open, she caught sight of the sofa. She shrieked as she dropped the cup of tea, shattering the delicate cup.

A bruised and bloodied Sherlock and a man she knew to be dead jolted awake with wide eyes in a way that would be comical in other circumstances.

John untangled himself from Sherlock's tight grip, standing near the woman for fear she may collapse. A supposedly resurrected man would be quite a shock to anyone, not to mention someone of her age.

He awkwardly coughed. "It's good to see you again, Mrs. Hudson."

At John's words, Mrs. Hudson seemed to remember herself, and put her hands on her hips as she eyed John up and down.

"You are looking much too thin, young man. I am going to clean up this mess I've made, and then you will be telling me exactly what is going on here," she said in a shaky voice.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"And the same goes for you, Sherlock Holmes. Don't think I've overlooked that state you're in!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied.

As Mrs. Hudson turned to collect cleaning supplies from her flat - because God knows there were none to be found here - she grabbed John by the elbow, hauling him down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I know it's hard to believe, but it was all a trick. There was a lorry, and-"

"That is not what I'm talking to you about right now, John. I don't know half of what you boys manage to get yourselves into, or why. I'm just going to tell you that whatever happens, you are _never_ to do that to Sherlock again. I'm sure you must have had a very noble reason, dear. You wouldn't do this to him on purpose, nobody loves that man more than you do."

"Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh, yes, yes, I know, dear. I'm simply telling you that you absolutely broke that man when you left him, and I never want to see him like that again."

"You and me both, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good. Now run along, I'm sure he wants to keep an eye on you at the moment."

* * *

Lestrade pulled up to 221B to check on the brilliant consulting detective. It had become something of a duty, these routine visits. He knew that lovely landlady of his was keeping Sherlock fed and sleeping, but Lestrade couldn't bring himself to just forget the man he owed so many solved cases to.

This was the young, lanky drug addict Lestrade had lifted from the gutter, forced to get clean, had been with him every step of the way when there was nobody else there to stay with him. The man who had shown that brilliant spark of genius, that thrived at the crime scenes he eventually brought him to. Lestrade could never forget the first time he had suggested Sherlock come with him, to see if he could make anything of the puzzling murder case. The young man had begun to make cautious observations that soon became a flood of deductions that nobody else had been able to see. And he was right, completely and utterly right, but that wasn't what Lestrade recalled so vividly. No, it was the look on Sherlock's face as the deductions flowed out of him, that wild grin of triumph and joy.

"What a freak. He's practically getting off on it," sneered a then-new member of the forensics team.

The grin immediately fell off Sherlock's face. A brief look of hurt flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced by cold indifference. As he had turned to leave, Lestrade pulled him aside.

"Sherlock, that was...that was something else. I have a feeling we'll be calling you again. Would you mind?"

Sherlock had smirked almost shyly, a faint shadow of the grin he had once worn. "Not at all."

That had been nearly five years ago. Sherlock had not been to a crime scene since his loyal blogger had died. But Lestrade could not possibly abandon him now, not when Sherlock was lower than he had ever seen him. What he wouldn't give to see that insane smile of glee again…

When he knocked at the door, he was surprised to see Sherlock open it. Usually the man could not summon the will to leave the sofa.

What he was more surprised about was that the man was in horrid shape, covered in cuts and bruises.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!"

"I'm fine-"

"What the hell happened? How did I not know?"

"My brother handled it-"

"'It' being?"

"Moriarty."

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's voice trailed off when he saw a figure appear behind Sherlock at the top of the stairs. Before he had fully registered what was happening, Lestrade was up the stairs and had punched John Watson in the nose. As he pulled his arm back for another swing, Lestrade noticed that John did not make any move to defend himself, simply presented his face for whatever punishment Lestrade decided to inflict upon him. But suddenly, wiry arms wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Don't," Sherlock muttered.

After a minute, Lestrade relaxed, and Sherlock released him.

"Sherlock, go...somewhere. I need to talk to John."

"If you touch him-"

"I won't, Sherlock."

With a warning glare, Sherlock turned and stalked to his room as Lestrade watched, shocked that he had actually listened.

With a sigh, John gestured to the living room with the hand not clutching his bleeding nose. The two men sat in silence for several minutes.

Finally, Lestrade breathed out a shaky sigh. "Do you have the slightest idea what you did to him? He barely ate, barely slept, and when he did manage to he woke up _screaming_. Because of _you_. And now, after you damn near_ killed_ him, you have the nerve to just come waltzing back into his life."

He looked up to see silent tears running down John's face. "Look, I'll never forgive myself. Not if I lived forever. And I'm not saying I wasn't at fault, but I honestly did not have a choice. Mycroft just told me one day that he knew of Moriarty's plan, that he would have me fake my death and go into hiding. It was not my choice. I would never have chosen that. Never."

Lestrade's head fell into his hands. "Jesus…I don't know...I just don't know. I understand, but...I can't forgive you. Not yet, at least."

"I get it. I don't forgive myself either."

Lestrade huffed out a humorless laugh. "And what happened to Sherlock? How did he get himself hurt?"

"Moriarty kidnapped him right under Mycroft's nose, God knows how. We found him within a few hours, and killed Moriarty. He's dead. Sherlock's alright, just some bruising and mild lacerations. He was more affected by the, er, shock."

"You?"

"Yeah."

At the sound of a door opening, the two turned to see Sherlock emerging from his room.

"I've given you two more than enough time, and now I'm bored."

And if that wasn't a statement Lestrade had never thought he'd miss.

"Well, if you're so bored, we have a case we could really use you on, if you're interested?" Lestrade tentatively asked.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John, who gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"I'll be there."

"Thank God. I hate to admit it, but we've needed you these last few months."

For the second time in his life, Lestrade caught a glimpse of the wild smile from five years ago.

* * *

When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Sherlock bolted ahead of John and Lestrade, who both entire ride over, he had been all but bouncing in his seat, like a child promised a lollipop.

"Think he's missed this?" Lestrade joked.

"Maybe just a bit," John smirked.

"Now listen, don't get me wrong. I'm still pissed at you. So, so pissed. But you've...cured him. He's nearly himself again. And I'm grateful for that."

John said nothing, just gave Lestrade a smile that could easily be mistaken for a grimace of pain.

As the two men talked out front, Sherlock was already weaving his way through the familiar hallways to Lestrade's office. It had been so long, much too long, and he had missed this place terribly.

Lost in his thoughts, he nearly collided with the two people he least wanted to see at this moment when they rounded a corner. Anderson and Donovan first looked shocked, and then infuriatingly smug.

"Well, if it isn't Scotland Yard's freak." Donovan remarked. "So who'd you insult enough 'til they punched you? Feel like I should buy them a drink."

"It takes some nerve showing up here," Anderson sneered. "We may not have hard evidence, but I'm still not convinced you aren't just murdering for the fun of it, trying to pass off this genius act."

They had begun to back him into a corner, like hyenas slowly closing in on their prey.

"Leave him alone."

All three turned to see an extremely pissed off John Watson.

The blood drained from Donovan's face, and Anderson looked as if he may topple over at any second. They looked as if they had seen a ghost, which to be fair, they rather had.

"He is not a fraud, and you damn well know it. So leave him alone, go do something useful, and let him solve the case you were all too _stupid_ to figure out rather than torment him like a bunch of children."

The two seemed to be frozen in place for a moment, and then scurried off, unsure of what they had just seen.

"Thank you-"

"Don't thank me. Anyone would have done the same."

"No, they wouldn't, and you know that."

John shifted his weight awkwardly to one foot, and then the other. "So, how about we take a look at that case?"

"Good idea."

As they headed off to Lestrade's office, Sherlock smirked.

"What's so funny?" John asked.

"Nothing, just… how much do you want to bet Anderson's convinced he will be murdered by the furious spirit of John Watson tonight?"

The two snorted in laughter.

"Sherlock, we can't giggle, it's a police station."

* * *

It wasn't long before the press discovered that John had returned from the dead. And, with a little help from an influential minor government official, began to run off headline after headline.

**BLOGGER'S DEATH FAKED**

**MORIARTY WAS REAL**

**FAMOUS DETECTIVE IS THE REAL DEAL**

John smirked as he saw the small smile on Sherlock's face as the detective read the headlines. Sherlock's reputation was back, he was back to being London's wonder of the world.

But though John didn't know it, this wasn't what brought Sherlock so much happiness.

It was seeing the proof, in print, that John was really, truly, actually alive. Sherlock knew he was being ridiculous. For God's sake, the proof was right there, John was in the same room as him.

Still, he could not contain that little burst of happiness at each new headline.

* * *

Though Sherlock was clearly better than he had been before John's return, things were not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. He would still suffer from the occasional nightmare, waking up screaming or sobbing. But now, Sherlock would wake up to John holding him, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing words into his ear.

But Sherlock was back at cases, with his loyal doctor by his side. Went to Angelo's for dinner. Almost back to how things had been before.

One night, as Sherlock thumbed through a massive book of poisons and John typed up his latest blog entry, the doctor turned to Sherlock, starting to ask a question.

"Sherlock…" he stopped himself.

But now he had Sherlock's attention. "What?"

"Never mind."

"No, what were you going to say?"

"Nothing, it's just...I was expecting you to be, well, angry. That I lied to you. But you've just been, I don't know, _calm_ about the whole thing."

"I'm afraid I don't know what your question is."

"Why aren't you angry, Sherlock? It's fine if you are, in fact, you should be. You have every right to be furious at me right now."

"John, don't be ridiculous. You coming back was a miracle, I have never been so grateful in all my life. You can't honestly think I would risk losing you again, just after I got you back?"

John looked up at Sherlock to see that the man had begun to shake imperceptibly. "Sherlock? Let me make this very, _very_ clear. The only reason I will ever leave again is if you ask me to. You are allowed to be angry at me. You don't have to worry about me leaving. Scream, yell, whatever you do, I'm not going anywhere."

"So you want me to be mad at you?"

"I don't want you to hide anything from me."

"Fine. It was cruel of you to leave me alone for a year. To make me cry at your grave. To make me believe that the one person who had ever understood me had left." As Sherlock spoke, his voice began to waver.

"You're right, it was cruel of me. And you cannot begin to understand how sorry I am."

"I'm more angry at my brother. He's the one that took you away. You said it yourself, you didn't choose to leave."

"I didn't."

"Right then. Happy?"

"Are you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, John."

"Alright."

"Good."

John sighed. "Cup of tea?"

"Thank you."

"Why? I make you tea multiple times a day-"

"Not for the tea."

"Oh. You're welcome. And Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Thank _you_."

* * *

** And that's a wrap! I really hope you've enjoyed this fic. One last time, thank you for all the reviews, messages, favorites, and follows. You are all such lovely people. :)**

**If you didn't see on my tumblr, I will be doing an alternate version of Chapter 5 at some point, and it will be posted on my tumblr. The post explaining why is on my tumblr (link in my profile, if that doesn't work username is corinneshaden) and can be found with the other fanfiction updates, which are just under the "update" tag on my tumblr.**

**I also plan on writing more Sherlock fanfiction, I have a few ideas floating around on my computer that may or may not develop into anything. So keep an eye out for those, I'll be posting all updates on my tumblr! :)**

**So once again, thank you so very VERY much for all the support this fic has received.**

**Thanks!**

**-Corinne Shaden**


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